


Civilizations Born

by thunderlilly



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderlilly/pseuds/thunderlilly
Summary: It feels the birth of the losers.But It doesn't fear them.And they don't fear It.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

1

It feels the moment the boy is born, entering the world a screaming, slimy thing, a month early and not a girl like his mother noted with a guilty kind of disappointment.

It had felt the births of the others as well, of course, and one is still missing (the patient one, the first to die and live forever), but this one feels different from all the others.

Brighter, somehow. It can feel it even from It’s hiding place in the sewers, deep down under the town of Derry, even slumbering, and It is fascinated despite Itself.

It is hungry (It’s always hungry, always ravenous) and drawn to the shrill screams of the tiny creature that’s still fussing in his mother’s arms.

It can smell the blood and slime still clinging to his body where the towel hadn’t reached and it smells more delicious than anything It’s ever smelled before (including the smell of 88 little children, roasting in between bits of scrambled,slightly charred eggs).

It also feels the exact moment the boy opens his eyes for the first time, the second his mother’s new, tentative feelings of happiness and love turn into confusion and a slow, nagging kind of fear.

Revulsion and despair.

Curious, It sends shadowy tendrils out towards where they are sitting on the bed out of the corners of the room (delighting in the way the mother shivers subconsciously as It’s shadows wind themselves up her legs and along her arms.

The woman is shaking now, still staring motionless down at the boy she’s just given birth to and It pays her no mind as it does the same.

The child’s eyes are large (distantly It wonders how they might taste) and far too intelligent for a newborn child. And they are of a deep, dark blue, so dark they’re almost black.

There is no white in his eyes.

Just that mesmerizing darkness, intermingled with purple and gold and greens swirling all around themselves, seeming to suck all the light out of the room.

There are stars glittering deep behind them. Shining bright and short and dying almost as soon as they are born.

They are, It realizes with a foreign sense of wonder, _beautiful_ (and _that_ is a new one all in itself, because It has never, _ever_ reveled in anything other than pain and suffering and even those are more to quell It’shunger than for anything as trivial as _beauty_ ).

It lets It’s tendrils creep closer, winding themselves around the child unbeknownst to the mother and up to rest around its neck.

Then It lifts up, snake-like, to gaze down at the boy. A deep black tendril of shadow, viciousness and rows upon rows of long, sharp teeth bared in a snarl and directed at the scrunched little face beneath.

Curious, just to see how the boy will react, It bares It’s teeth and growls deep and guttural.

The mother flinches, as if feeling It’s presence and the danger emitting from It and she clutches her child tighter, while still not quite daring to pull him against herself fully.

The boy, though, just stops fussing stares curiously at It for a few moments, unmoving and deathly quiet for the very first time since he’s been born, enticing eyes firmly fixed on the shadow above his face.

A string of saliva lowers slowly from the first row of It’s teeth, its string getting thinner and thinner until finally, it snaps and a fat drop of saliva lands squarely on his cheek, right below his right eye.

“Ah,” the baby says, face scrunching up as if to cry.

Instead, he smiles. Wide and toothless, his strange eyes sparkling darkly from underneath It. One of his chubby, tiny hands reaches up towards It and when it makes contact with one of It’s tendrils, yanking it down and towards his mouth.

It almost wants to laugh at the irony of the situation. That this tiny, newborn baby should already be just as ravenous as the thing it was born to destroy.

The mother gasps at the smile of her son, flinching away from the small body and lets him slide out of her arms with a quiet, panicked sound.

Before the child’s body can hit her legs where they are already covered by the blanket again, It tightened It’s grip on him and lowers the bundle gently, noticing with no small amount of amusement that one small hand has already wound itself around one of It’s shadows again.

Once the boy lies comfortably in the lap of his mother, ripping apart shadowy figures and watching in awe as they put themselves together again, It lets another appendage grow up her shoulders and around her throat.

“Careful,” It croons into her ear and almost purrs at the new wave of fear that’s washing through her.

“You don’t want him to come to harm before it’s time, do you? He and his little friends are the only things that are going to prevent me from eating this town whole.”

The woman makes a small sound when It tightens It’s hold just for a second, before It creeps back down to curl around the boy’s torso.

He makes a cooing sound, delighted and turns his face to rest against one of the thicker shadow parts that is lying by his cheek.

His hold on It, the eater of worlds, destroyer of civilizations, doesn’t falter even as his eyes slide closed and he slips back into a quiet slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Bill Denbrough was the first of the children to be born - of course he was.

He was born a strong child. Healthy and fat and screaming loudly through his first breaths (no stutter, It thought, how boring).

Bill Denbrough was born right on the day he was supposed to, no complications, with minimal pain for his mother and already a thick patch of downy hair on his head. He was, by all accounts, perfect.

(And yet his parents couldn’t help but be disappointed, just a tiny little bit, as if they had expected another child, and they each found themselves thinking, _it’s going to be the next one_. But they’d never tell each other that).

The doctors held Bill with an air of reverence, murmuring softly and the nurses cooed at him, happily, at first, but growing more and more worried when he just wouldn’t stop _crying_.

So they took him away from his mother, distressed and confused and tested him, scanned and scanned and looked and never found a single thing wrong with him.

Bill Denbrough was born a perfect child.

A strong child.

But Bill Denbrough was also born the first one. And for the first 27 days of his existence he was utterly and terrifyingly alone.

And so he cried.

He cried and he cried until his mother had half a mind to just leave him at the hospital (she hated herself for it, would always hate herself for this thought even when she’d long forgotten ever having had it, it would only come back once _the next one_ was gone, creeping back in late at night and it tasted _so_ sweet to It), but at this point she was just so, _so_ tired.

On the 27th day, just before the sun was at its highest, Bill stopped crying.

His parents rushed into the room, to his crib, tired and full of fear to find their only (but not for long and then forever) son gone.

He’d grown weaker since they’d left the hospital, just two days after his birth, refusing to drink. Refusing to rest.

The doctors had already given up on him, whispering to each other whenever the Denbroughs were visiting the hospital. Asking each other with a sick kind of curiosity when the child would finally give up completely, when he so obviously didn’t want to be on this world in the first place.

But Bill Denbrough wasn’t dead when his parents made it to his crib, shaking and scared. Instead Bill Denbrough was _smiling_ , wide and delighted, letting out little cooing noises.

As his parents watched confusedly, he raised one of his small hands up towards them, splaying his fingers wide in a cheery wave.

Uncomprehendingly, the boy watched as his father suddenly sagged against the crib with a huge sighing and his mother let out a relieved sob, reaching her own hand down to his and gripped it gently before lifting him out of his nest of blankets.

“Hey,” she cooed, staring at her son in awe and confusion.

“You scared us so much, sweetheart, you have no idea!”

Bill didn’t answer, wouldn’t have been able to answer even if he’d had more than just vague perceptions of his surroundings.

Couldn’t have.

Because Bill wouldn’t have known why he’d been crying in the first place, only that something just hadn’t been right at all. Something had been missing.

But it wasn’t missing anymore. He wasn’t complete yet, but certainly better than before.

And for the first time in his very short life, Bill Denbrough was content.

Because Bill Denbrough wasn’t alone anymore.


End file.
